


At His Funeral I Didn't Cry

by inclinedtoarson



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (brief mention), Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Spencer is already dead, This is more of a drabble, Wakes & Funerals, no graphic descriptions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:46:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25830793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inclinedtoarson/pseuds/inclinedtoarson
Summary: "And then I arrived home to an empty shell of an apartment. At first I still felt that the flowers around the kitchen or the coffee table in front of the TV or scattered haphazardly around the front door were nice gestures, something generous to give to someone who was grieving. And Spencer loved apartments, and I loved that he had begun to turn ours into a library..."
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 19





	At His Funeral I Didn't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> idk i got really sad today after pulling an all nighter and started thinking about how to deal and process the loss of someone you loved. this is kinda general but it felt good to write. i'm honestly pretty happy with the final outcome. i hope you enjoy

At his funeral I didn’t cry. 

I thought that was a good thing, that it meant I was strong, that I would recover from the feeling of loss rather quickly. That the hugs I received from people felt nice enough. That the looks I intercepted throughout the service that were obviously dripping with pity felt misdirected. And then I arrived home to an empty shell of an apartment. At first I still felt that the flowers around the kitchen or on the coffee table in front of the TV or scattered haphazardly around the front door were nice gestures, something generous to give to someone who was grieving. And Spencer loved apartments, and I loved that he had begun to turn ours into a library. I quickly flitted my eyes around the whole room, noticing the way vases filled with flowers seemed to be competing with the piles of books everywhere on which one could take up more space. So I arrived home and it was so quiet and I thought I would enjoy the quiet, that the quiet would soothe my mind. The quiet and the smell of flowers would be alright. And it did feel that way for a temporary amount of time. But then I walked into _the_ bedroom, it wasn’t really _ours_ anymore, and it surely wasn’t _mine_. 

And I felt emotion building inside me, my chest, my throat, my brain. I hurriedly thought that if I slept the emotion would dissipate. But when I laid my head down my senses were flooded with the scent of him. And I shook with my emotion, the thought crossing my brain before I could stop it: that one day his scent would fade and I wouldn’t be able to have him here to refresh it. That there would be a time in my life when I forgot that scent. At the same time I hated the scent now; the memories it conjured to the forefront of my mind. The feeling of Spencer’s arms wrapped around me before we both steadied our breaths just before we fell asleep, the realization that I would never feel or hear or experience that again. 

And this happened so quickly I couldn’t stop the emotion inside me, my chest, my throat, and my brain from exploding. I screamed into my pillow which frustratingly smelled of the perfect mixture of him and I. Then the tears followed; screams and tears and shaking and desperate, terrified, heartache screams that tore through my chest. My chest was torn open by the screams, the markers of sudden loneliness and complete emptiness that I never imagined could happen to me. I was beginning to understand I had never experienced a loss like him. We had promised each other our forevers. I shook so much from my sobbing but that didn’t stop me from being destructive. I was mad at the bed, the sheets, the smells they carried. It wasn’t fair how I could be wrapped up in his scent still, nearly feeling his chest pressed against my back while his fingers traced light patterns into my arms or my stomach, but suddenly having to realize over and over again that that was no longer my reality. Instead I was alone in a whirlwind of a room, Spencer now 6 feet in the ground on the other side of the city. So near but not close enough, no longer in my arms. 

And it wasn’t fair that every drawer I opened, every hanger placed delicately in the closet, every mug tucked away in the cabinets reminded me of him. His smile or his laugh or his touch or his sadness or his confusion or his joy or his life that was once so intertwined with mine. But our ties have been severed, incredibly too soon. And somehow I was still screaming and crying and destroying. Somehow there were shirts of his, socks of his, ties of his on the floor. When did they move from their hangers or drawers? How was I screaming and crying and shaking and destroying all at the same time? Was I really that powerful? Was the explosion of emotion in my chest, my throat, my brain really that persuasive, that I could destroy pieces of his memory in this room? Why hadn’t I cried like this at the funeral? And why wasn’t Spencer here to calm me down, to rub my back and stroke my cheeks? Why was my face and my shirt wet with tears when I had a fiance to brush my tears away? I was shaking too much. 

I felt the sudden roughness of carpet rubbing against my knees as I collapsed unceremoniously to the ground. In front of me was a sweater of Spencer’s that would never be worn again. At least for now it was still laced with his smell. Goddamn that fucking smell. Somehow strong but clean and soft and comforting and gut wrenching all at once. I picked it up, felt the soft material between my fingers. I hugged it to my chest, upset my tears would begin to stain it but realizing I had no other option. Spencer wasn’t here, he wouldn’t be coming back, and I had to start allowing his sweaters or shirts or socks or ties or slacks or mugs or books or endless papers be enough. All of that would have to be enough until I could see him again, in another lifetime maybe, or if a thing such as an afterlife existed. Or even a year from now when I could go back to the place he was resting. Leave him some flowers, play a game of chess with him. I bet he would still beat me, he was always, on average, 3 moves ahead of his opponent when he played chess. Maybe I’d read him a book, one that he had written so many notes in; some pages I would struggle to locate the author’s original words because the page was filled with his scribbles. But that was for later. For now, I would drag the comforter back on to the mattress, and stare at the ceiling as I tightened my grasp against this particular sweater. And I will whisper good night to whoever in the universe wants to listen and hope to join Spencer again in my dreams. 

Maybe tonight it could be his turn to read to me.


End file.
